


soft spoken words, muttered in moments of affection

by ImagineBeatles



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Interpretation of Sex, Asexual Relationship, Domestic Boyfriends, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, John and Paul are out and proud and gay, Light Angst, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, This Is For You, but not really, chapters can be read individually or in order, if you're looking for ace mclennon content, occassionally, or can be interpreted as such, soft boys in love, they're adorable idiots, this is as ace as John and Paul will ever get probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2020-09-27 21:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20414902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImagineBeatles/pseuds/ImagineBeatles
Summary: "John... Do you love me?"Do you really have to ask?John wanted to say in return.





	1. Do you love me?

**Author's Note:**

> I've been really in the mood for some cute fluffy and intimate mclennon content, so I figured I'd write it myself. 
> 
> This is just a collection of little intimate moments in John and Paul's very established, very domestic, very gay relationship. All moments are completely asexual and feature either romantic, sensual or domestic intimacy. The point of view will change between chapters and you can read all the chapters either individually or in order, depending on which you prefer. Each chapter will have it's own little summary to let you know what's gonna happen. Potential future warnings will also appear there if necessary, though I don't think it ever will be (I don't have any plans for that kind of stuff right now). 
> 
> The modern au is basically only there to allow me more freedom with writing this. Because the fic will be more... free flowing I can't say when or how often I'll be posting new chapters. 
> 
> Also, John and Paul are not actually asexual (I mean... there's no way they ever could be), but no actual sex will feature in any of the chapters (if it ever does it will be in the most asexual way possible), so it can be interpreted as an asexual relationship if you so wish.

"John?"

They were lying in Paul's too small three-quarter bed, sides pressed against each other as they stared up at the ceiling. The chill of the evening brushed over their naked shoulders through the open window, letting in not only the gentle wind, but also the silver light of the moon, creating shadows on the walls and the ceiling, which John had been watching intently until Paul had spoken. _Their_ shadows.

"Hmm?" he asked, mouth heavy with sleep. He let his eyes drift from the wall to his boyfriend's profile as he turned his head towards the voice, which sounded uncharacteristically unsure. He saw Paul bite his lip before he continued, voice trembling, fingers clutching at the sheets, ruffling them.

"Do you love me?"

_Do you love me? _John blinked at the question. He couldn't say the question surprised him, but he still hadn't expected it. Paul wasn't usually straightforward with him. Even when they had first met, John hadn't had a clue what Paul's feelings towards him were and if he hadn't been so dead set on getting to know the lad, he was almost certain they would not be here tonight. Even if eventually it had been Paul who had made the first move.

He remembered it well. Two years ago, they had met. Paul had been about to turn twenty-three a week or two later and still had been at university, while he himself had been done for nearly a year, though that did not mean he didn't like going to parties anymore. Stuart had brought him along to this one, it being the birthday party of a friend of his then girlfriend, meaning that John had barely known anyone there. Paul had been there under similar circumstances, hanging out with a girl who John had thought had been his girlfriend, but who later turned out to be a one-time date, much to John's relief.

He had been sitting in the corner of the room of the student apartment, a bit apart from everyone else, smoking a joint as he talked to the girl, giggling and laughing and simply looking blissed out and relaxed, movements slowed, eyes slightly red from the marijuana. Their eyes had met, purely by accident, and John had known the moment he had looked into them - round, big, droopy like a puppy's, glistening almost gold in the faint light - that he'd love to see those eyes up close, would love to see them flicker shut at his touch, and open again as he'd whisper his name. But aside from the brief meeting of eyes, Paul himself had shown little interest in him.

Richie had introduced them, being a mutual friend, and John hadn't left Paul's side all evening, following him around and insisting on talking with him, until he had persuaded Paul to accept a ride home from him - his actual ride, the girl, had left at some point thanks to John's mingling and well-placed remarks. The lad hadn't appeared too pleased about it first, but as John had dropped him off at his apartment building, Paul had leaned across and placed a tentative kiss to John's lips as he had slipped a small note into his hand with his phone number. Before John had been able to say anything, he had gotten out of John's crappy car and was hurrying away, shooting not so much as a glance back at John as he disappeared inside.

After that, it had taken John approximately three weeks and many attempts before he had finally gathered enough courage to send the lad a text, asking him to have coffee with him. His heart had skipped when he got a reply not two minutes later with a simple "yes" and a suggestion for a time and place near the university, agreeing to meet him there after his final class of the day.

Seeing Paul again, they had talked like old friends, sipping their overpriced coffees, as Paul did something on his laptop for university and listened to John babbling on about various topics, from his job to his own university experiences to his favourite films, and finally what kind of music he liked. It had been surprisingly casual for a date, and for a moment John had wondered if it was a date at all. Still it had given him plenty of time to just stare at Paul, watch the way he furrowed his eyebrows when something went wrong on his computer or when struggled to understand what John was saying, or the way he would sometimes subconsciously bite his lip, or the way the fringe of his moptop would sometimes hang in front of his eyes, just a tad too long, or the way his lips moved as he spoke, just a hint of a Scouse accent on his tongue, which somehow grew stronger the more he concentrated on his screen.

John had loved taking in every detail of the man's face, something he liked doing even now, when he already knew where every little blemish, ever little curve, every little hair, was placed so neatly on his face.

Once they had finished their coffee and Paul had done whatever he had needed to do - he had explained it at some point, but John hadn't really paid attention to what the guy had been saying, much preferring to look at the way he stirred his coffee - one sugar, a splash of almond milk (he was trying to cut down on dairy) - they had left the little coffee place and cycled to the harbour on Paul's bike to grab some fish and chips for dinner, giving John an excuse to wrap his arm around the other man's waist as he sat on the luggage rack at the back of Paul's bike. Fake newspapers in their lap, they had sat overlooking the water, listening to the seagulls call overhead, circling them in the hope to get some of their chips, the bustling of the city behind them. If John concentrated, he could still feel the way Paul had suddenly curled a finger around John's pinkie as he had popped a piece of fish in his mouth, the way the rough skin of his fingertips stroked his skin, hesitant yet determined, crossing it over John's, before sliding his whole hand up and around to take a proper hold of him. 

It were in those little things that John had finally found a way to recognise Paul's feelings and during the next two years, he had gotten better and better at recognising all the little ways in which Paul showed his affection, the soft glances, the little smirks, the brief tentative touches, the way he would roll his eyes at John's joke, but allowed is lips to curl up in a smile anyway, the way he always answered his texts within the first five minutes or would agree to meet him no matter what other stuff he had going on that day, and the way he could take John by surprise when he'd capture John's lips in a kiss, or whisper something sweet to him, or when he had given him his bloody phone number as if he had been the one flirting with John all evening instead of the other way around.

John liked those little signs, the little giveaways that only he saw. He liked searching for them, finding new ones every week. He liked deciphering Paul, liked to study him to see how his lips would do a certain little twitch when John teased or complimented him, or his eyes would briefly land on John, before looking away again as if nothing was the matter. Because he knew that while Paul held back in public, in private he was completely different, clinging to John as if he were a buoy saving him from drowning. When they got home, it was Paul who'd push him up against the wall to snog the life out of him, who'd pull him to his feet to dance when he was feeling particularly cheery, or who'd pull John to him while they were watching TV, or who'd rest his chin on John's shoulder when John was working, wrapping his arms around his waist.

Yet, asking John something of this nature this directly was not how Paul usually went about things. John was the direct one. He was the one who'd make inappropriate comments just to make Paul blush when they were hanging out with friends or even sitting in the bus surrounded by strangers. He was the one grabbing a hold of Paul's hand when they walked together. He was the one proudly introducing Paul as his boyfriend, while Paul struggled to make anything out and would say something vague, always worried about what others might think.

Yet, despite his forwardness, John wasn't good making moves. He liked to think he was smooth, but if his relationship with Paul had proved one thing it was that he was not so much smooth, as a bumbling idiot, eager to grab each moment to be close to the other man, but too insecure to actually do something when it came down to it. After that first date, it had taken them at least another three months before they had officially started dating, no thanks to John, and another two before Paul had kissed him for the first time in public. And now, two years later, John was lying in Paul's bed, naked apart from his underwear, their shoulders brushing, and he gently slipped a pinkie over Paul's as he repeated Paul's question over and over and over again in his head.

_Do you love me?_

_'Do you really have to ask?'_, John wanted to say in return. He had thought Paul would have known that yes, he absolutely did love him, but if Paul had to ask… John had never actually said the words out loud, after all - what with him being insecure and nervous and all that crap, even when he knew he needn't be with Paul.

He had wanted to tell him, of course. Numerous times. At the most ridiculous moments to: as he woke up to find Paul cooking him breakfast, or feeding his cat, or taking a shower, not even blinking an eye as John joined him under the hot stream, or as Paul was playing him a song on the guitar, or was improvising a bit on the piano, or when he showed up at John's doorstep unannounced when they hadn't seen each other in a while, or when they were lying in bed together like they were now, in simple silence, just feeling the other's warmth, or when Paul would come home drenched to the bone and shivering as he had gotten caught in a storm on his way back, or during dinner. Usually, he had ended up staring at Paul, only to receive a quick kiss on the lips when he caught him.

Still, he had thought Paul had understood. He had thought Paul had seen what those stares had meant, those little moments when he'd stop talking mid-sentence as he was suddenly taken aback by how perfect that man before him really was. He had thought Paul had understood that whenever he had been joking about how they could argue about nothing like an old married couple, or how awful it would be when they'd grow older and Paul would lose his pretty face - though John doubted that would ever happen - or how he'd say yes if Paul were to propose to him right there in the middle of Tesco, he hadn't actually been joking half the time.

He wanted to ask Paul how he could ever think John didn't love him, when he himself was so sure he had never loved anyone quite as much as he loved Paul. But he didn't.

Instead, he leaned up on his elbow to look down at the younger man, watching the way the moonlight played on his soft features, the shadows of his eyelashes making them look even longer than they already were, his lips more plump and his skin almost impeccable, not a blemish visible except for the light scar that cut across Paul's upper lip, right through the left side of his Cupid's bow.

John always thought he had made it clear that he did love Paul. He had thought he told him. If not with words, then with his actions. But he hadn't. Or at least, not enough. 

_Do you love me? _

_Yes, more than I could ever say. _

_Try anyway. _

Closing his eyes, John pressed a kiss right on top of the tiny scar, stomach twisting at the way Paul sighed under him, fingers coming up to grasp at John's arms, rather than the bed sheets, body inviting John closer as he pulled him in.

"I-I love you," John muttered, sounding breathless, the words barely coming out, but by the way he could feel Paul smile against his lips, he knew they had. "I love you," he whispered again, earning himself a soft moan as the grip of Paul's fingers on his arms grew firmer. "Shit, of course I fucking love you, you dumb fuck. How could you even ask me a stupid question like that."

"I love you too, John," Paul answered in return, fingers sliding up to caress John's face, tracing the line of his jaw, up to ears, finally cupping his cheek, and John felt he could just about spit his heart out and feed it to the other man, wanting Paul to consume his whole being, if such a thing were at all possible.

"Say it again," he asked, not having known how much he had needed to hear those words spill from Paul's lips until just now. Paul happily complied, smiling broadly at him, before repeating those words, saying them over and over and over again as he held onto John, wrapping their bodies together until John wasn't sure where his own body ended and Paul's began.

"I love you."

Somehow it felt fitting for them to confess it like this. And John couldn't wait to hear it again in the morning.


	2. Hold me closer, baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul enjoy a lazy sunday morning in bed together, featuring a lot of cuddling, lazy kisses, and hair petting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot for the positive reponse on the first chapter! As I've said, I'm so relieved you seem just as excited for this as I am. I've got quite a few chapters planned for this now, and I can't wait to share them.

It was still early when Paul felt himself being pulled out of his sleep. His body felt it first: the weight of the blanket, the soft press of the mattress, and the warmth of another body against his back. His mind soon followed, the contours of his dreams fading, colours bleeding away like a child's chalk drawing on the street during a rainy day, and when he opened his eyes, he was back in his bedroom, dream still playing in his mind for three seconds more before suddenly vanishing.

The first light of the day came seeping through the little crack between the window frame and the curtains, lighting up the room just enough to see. The body against his back stirred and snuggled closer, nose rubbing along the curve of Paul's neck as his lips nipped at Paul's shoulder, hair tickling Paul's face.

Paul sighed at the feeling, letting his eyes fall close again as he leaned into it.

"Jowhn…" he muttered, voice still thick with sleep, barely able to forms the proper shapes with his mouth. He could feel the other man smile against his skin, his arms coming up to warp themselves around Paul's waist and hold him closer, fingers softly stroking at the little black hairs on his skin.

"Morning, Macca," he replied, his voice a soft growl that sent tremors down Paul's body.

"Wha- wha time is it?"

"Six thirty. Couldn't sleep anymore." He moved his lips up higher to kiss along Paul's jaw and finally the little patch of skin right behind Paul's ear, making the man in his arms groan as he rubbed his face into his pillow.

"Too early," he complained, stretching his body, and John hummed in agreement, teeth coming out to nibble at the mark that was forming on Paul's pale skin.

"We don't have to get up for a long time yet, Paulie. It's Sunday."

"Even if it wasn’t, I'm not sure I would."

John chuckled at that. "And here I thought I was the lazy one."

"What can I say? You're a bad influence on me, Lennon."

"Hmm, appears that your dear old dad was right about me all along. You should've listened." 

"Definitely should not have. No, thank you."

Paul stretched himself out and let himself fall back against John with a body twice as slack and relaxed, but awake enough to feel every single one of John's little touches. Pulling himself together, he rolled over onto his other side, turning to face John, and tangled their legs together as he pressed his face against the older man's chest, taking in his scent as his fingers grasped at his sleeping shirt, old and ravelled. He smelled musky, so familiar, so much like _John_, whatever that meant. He smelled of charcoal and paint and something sweet that he could not quite place and home. Paul would gladly live in that scent if he could. And if this was all he could get he'd gladly take it.

John's fingers slid up his body, from his back up to his shoulders, to the back of his neck, massaging the muscles he found on the way, before finally slipping into his hair, gently pushing through the tousled mess. Paul moaned at the feeling, melting into it.

"Like that?" John asked and Paul could practically hear the smirk that played on his lips. Yet, he merely hummed in response, pulling John a little closer to him to encourage him, too sleepy to care. Let him be smug, he thought, as long as he continues doing that.

Paul had always liked having his hair played with. He liked the feeling of John's clever fingers running through his locks, pushing backwards and forwards and sideways, messing up what Paul usually took such great care off and spent minutes of his day perfecting. Not only did it feel good, the way John would push and pull the hairs into every possible direction to create an almost tingling sensation while his fingers massaged his scalp, it was intimate too, to have John touch and play with what he would usually only touch this thoroughly himself in private under the shower. John was the only one who got to do this and Paul loved it whenever he did. He could lie for eternity with John's hand buried in his hair and be content.

John did tease him about it occasionally, saying he had a hair pulling kink, but Paul had stopped defending himself months ago. He didn't think he had a "hair pulling kink" as John called it, knowing it was not quite the same, but ultimately the difference did not matter. Not when John was doing _that_ to him. It made Paul feel safe whenever John played with his hair, whenever he'd pull ever so lightly, causing Paul to groan into his shoulder. It made him feel wanted, loved, protected, and cared for, as if the world consisted only of him and John and the bed they were lying in.

Besides, he did not mind being teased. Not by John. Not when his teasing just made his stomach contract with the desperate need to grab him by the collar, slam him against a wall and kiss him for all he was worth just to shut him up. Not when John would pay extra attention to his hair after.

To show his appreciation, he slipped his hands under John's shirt, gently rubbing circles on his skin with his fingertips as he pressed down to roll John on his back, climbing on top of him as he continued to place kisses all over John's chest, moving his lips up to the man's collar bone to suck a little mark of his own there, right where everyone would be able to see it, if John unbuttoned his shirt just enough. The man tugged his hair a little harder in response, legs opening for Paul to slot between, his own lips travelling to kiss the outer shell of Paul's ear, knowing how sensitive he was there.

"I love you," John whispered, and Paul subconsciously tightened his grip where he was holding onto John's hips, "could lie with you forever like this."

"Then, let's," Paul murmured against John's skin as he kissed him again, wiggling a little to get comfortable in their new position, one hand coming up to grip at John's shoulder. "Just for today."

"What about Thisbe?" John said and Paul groaned at the mention of his cat, a negative one this time, laying his head on John's chest in defeat, and John laughed at his reaction. "Needy, aren't you, baby?" he asked, fingers still stroking Paul's hair affectionately, and Paul felt his insides grow warm at the use of the pet name.

"Don't want to get up," he said. "I want to stay here with you." He kissed the little patch of naked skin he could access in his current position and slid his hands under John's body, holding him close, as he glanced up at John with pleading eyes. He was playing it up, but he knew how John enjoyed it when he did, and he leaned up into John's touch as the man pushed his hair back, muttering his name. He could see John swallow visibly in response and Paul knew that fake concern for his cat was now the last thing on his mind.

"Well… in that case… how could I refuse?" he said and Paul smirked up at him.

"What about Thisbe?" he asked, and John smirked back in response as he slipped one of his hands out of Paul's hair to take a gentle hold of his chin, angling his face up to meet his.

"She'll just have to starve, I guess," he said and Paul chuckled as John finally pulled him in for a kiss, lips soft yet claiming, almost possessive, allowing himself to melt against John, body turning into barely more than a hot pool of skin and bones. When they broke apart, Paul laid his head on John's chest, feeling the way the man's heart beat under him, and smiled as John began stroking his hair again, his other hand coming up to caress his back, drawing tiny little figures there.

"If you want to go to sleep again, you can," John muttered after a while, and Paul merely hummed in reply, focusing on the movements of John's fingers on his skin, smiling as he felt him draw a tiny little heart at the small of his back.

He didn't know when he had fallen asleep, but when he woke up again a few hours later at the feeling of a rather impatient and upset cat walking on his face, John was still there, finger still combing through his hair, a soft smile on his face as he greeted Paul for a second time that morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: slow dancing


	3. To be all alone with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After sipping wine on the couch and talking for hours, Paul decides to put on a record and ask John to dance with him. John is more than happy to oblige, even if he is reluctant to admit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow I really like the idea of John liking The Carpenters. For a list of the songs used in this chapter, see the notes at the end of the chapter.

It was late, the hour quickly nearing twelve. Dinner plates stood forgotten on the dining table, greasy and grimy and unwashed despite them having finished their dinner hours ago, and two empty wine bottles stood on the windowsill, recently finished and abandoned in favour of the only half-drunk bottle Paul had left. The men in question were sitting on the couch, glasses in hand, sprawled out and drinking wine as a record played in the background, the needle dragging over the vinyl grooves to create soothing crackles as the music played.

_I know that everybody has a dream_  
_Everybody has a dream_  
_ And this is my dream, my own_  
_ Just to be at home_  
_ And to be all alone...with you_

Or rather, one of them was sitting on the couch, the other having slipped off it all but twenty minutes ago and not having bothered to drag himself back up. The floor was comfortable enough, he thought, even if the other had warned him he would regret it in the morning. Not to mention that in this position, he could easily reach the other's foot, which dangled down from the couch. He liked having something to touch, and played with the rough material of the man's jeans as he subconsciously moved his head along to the music, enjoying the warm feeling of the alcohol burning in his blood.

They were talking as steadily as they were sipping their wine, muttering on about inconsequential stuff and bouncing from one subject to another in a way that only made sense to them, barely able to hold a thought. One moment they were discussing the music, next the youngest was talking about some philosophical ideas relating to the unknowable of reality, only for the other to interrupt and mention something about a strange story he had read in some magazine about jellyfish, before the conversation turned to childhood memories of holidays in Blackpool, at which one of them would remember some point of a previous conversation that they wished to discuss further, only to be lost in another string of vague associations only they themselves understood.

_Everybody has a dream_  
_And this is my dream, my own_  
_ Just to be at home_  
_ And to be all alone...with you_

"But like… it's a tree, right? So… you know… not really in the hurry to get anywhere, are they, trees? Unlike _some_ people. Do you remember when I told you about that man? Like, on the plane? God, he was a nightmare! Thought he could bloody well buy the whole damn plane. You must be pretty fucking rich if you can buy a plane, though. If I was rich, I'd buy a plane. Could get anywhere by plane, couldn't I? Long distance anyway… Taking a plane to work seems a bit excessive, don't you think? But if you're rich, you don't actually have to- to work. So… that doesn't really matter then, does it? Why aren't you rich, anyway? Was supposed to marry rich, I was. Teachers don't get rich, do they? Unless they already are. Then again, not many people get rich unless they already are… seems like a bloody joke. Anyway, I told her the tree would still be there when she'd get back. Well, made me look like a right bastard, didn't it? Not my fault they decided to chop the thing down. Could you live in a tree house? I don't think I could. No proper bed for starters. Or a toilet. Good invention, though."

"Tree houses?"

"Toilets! Though, yes, those too. If people wouldn't keep chopping them down. Is it even legal? Building one, I mean? Technically? Must be. Or people don't care enough to do anything about it. Makes you wonder what other stuff is secretly illegal. I bet your looks are illegal. Should be anyway. A right danger to society, you are. More so than tree houses, anyway."

Paul chuckled at that and shook his head as he took another sip from his wine, trying not to linger on the compliment as he tried to follow John's next tantrum about… strange crimes he'd heard about apparently. Paul loved listening to John talk. Even if he didn't make much sense. He loved the sound of his voice, the way he could get really excited about something he wanted to say, only to forget it when he finally got to the point he wanted to make, and the way he would say the silliest things with a straight face face and most philosophically deep stuff as if he were telling some nihilistic joke only he truly understood himself. But Paul understood them. And he could listen to him for hours. And sometimes he did, chiming in occasionally just to keep him talking.

This evening had turned out to be such an evening. He had been listening to John pretty much non-stop, occasionally zoning out as he found himself staring at the other man, or enjoying what he was doing to his foot a little too much. It hadn't been the plan. It was a week day, meaning that Paul had work the following day, and drinking with John always went on for hours. He was going to regret staying up late, not to mention the excessive amount of alcohol they'd been consuming. But at the moment, he didn't care enough to quit. They had passed the station of no return a long time ago, when John had gleefully opened a second bottle, and Paul hadn't stopped him. He hadn't cared. Not with the way John had sat pressed up against him, wine drenched breath ghosting over Paul's ear as he had convinced him to drink _just one more glass of wine_. And another one. And another, all while whispering to him how gorgeous he thought he was, the alcohol already having overridden his usual restraint with such things. And well… Paul only had so much self-control, and John's breathy praises had lowered that significantly.

Paul jerked himself back to reality as he realised he had been staring again. John had moved on to fully massaging his foot now, and sat staring off into nothingness as he talked about… Elvis?

"Elvis is kill-me-with-your-bare-hands gorgeous though. And Gary Grant. James Dean. I'd let them murder me. Actual serial killers aren't half as handsome. I really don't understand the fascination! …You kinda look like them, though. Faintly. Somehow. Maybe I've got a type. The Elvis, James Dean type I mean. Not the serial killers."

Paul wasn't sure how John had gotten to this subject, but he didn't care - he had to admit he loved how complimentary John got when intoxicated - and simply smiled at him as he watched John drink his wine and stare up at the ceiling, head cocked back to rest on the couch, exposing his bare throat and the little mark Paul had created there not three days ago. It was starting to fade.

He wished John would slide back up on the couch already, missing the warmth of his body against him, the weight pressing him down, the taste on his mouth on his lips. He finished his wine and put the glass aside.

The record ended. Glancing at the clock on the wall, Paul knew that if he wanted to head to bed to hold onto the last sliver of responsibility he had left, he'd have to take his chance. He could get at least a decent night's rest, which may help with the hangover he'd no doubt experience in the morning. He didn't. He was young and in love. He had no reason to be responsible. Even if he might hate himself the next day as he'd try to keep himself together with a bursting headache in front of 30 pupils asking stupid and confusing questions about grammar.

"The record stopped," he pointed out, voice barely more than a drawl, and John let out a huff in response.

"You pick something. I don't- I don't care. Just… none of that classical stuff. You know I don't like it. Dead people are boring."

"Elvis is dead," Paul pointed out, but John just made face.

"Eh. Not everyone would agree with you there, anyway, my dear, and that's enough for me." 

Grinning, Paul removed his feet from John's grip and slid from the couch as he began to crawl his way to the record player at the opposite side of the room, giggling as John kicked his arse. He pulled himself up onto his knees as he reached his record collection and began fingering through it, pulling some records out to consider them, before finally settling on a particular single that made him smile. Removing the needle and taking out the Bill Joel album they had been listening too, he popped in the single, adjusted the speed, and put it on, gently placing the needle on the record. The sound of a piano and horn sounded, playing an intro that was incredibly familiar to them both, and filled the room, followed by the sweet verse that never failed to make Paul smile.

_I may not always love you_  
_But long as there are stars above you_  
_ You never need to doubt it_  
_ I'll make you so sure about it_  
_ God only knows what I'd be without you_

He could hear John chuckling behind him at his choice, but Paul didn't care and got up on his feet, before walking over to the man, who was still sitting on the floor, refilling his glass with the final drops of wine. Smiling, he took the empty bottle from him, placed it on the coffee table, before doing the same with his refilled glass, earning himself a frown from John. When he offered him his hand, John stared at it for a moment. When he caught on to what Paul had in mind, his eyes flickered with interest.

"Sap," he teased, and Paul rolled his eyes, having expected a comment like that, but also knowing his partner better than to take it seriously. If either of them was a sap, it was John and they both knew it.

"It's not sappy. Come on. I've had too much wine and have had rather enough of talking. Humour me," he said, and with an exaggerated groan, as if Paul had told him he was going to have to clean the whole flat in less than an thirty minutes because his dear aunt Mimi was coming to visit, John took his hand to let Paul pull him up on his feet.

"Fine. But I get to lead this time," he said, and before Paul knew it, John had pulled him into his arms, hands grasping his hips, leaving Paul to place his own on his shoulders. He did so, touching John gingerly, his fingertips tingling at the touch he had been longing for, and sighed as he was pulled even closer in response, their bodies now fully touching. John felt nice and warm against him, his arms safe as they wrapped around him, and Paul couldn't hold back the smile that pulled on his lips as they began to sway.

_God only knows what I'd be without you_  
_God only knows what I'd be without you_  
_ God only knows what I'd be without you (God only knows)_  
_ God only knows what I'd be without you_  
_ God only …_

The song was too short to dance to (especially as they had spend half of it bickering about nothing and wasting what Paul thought was precious time), and Paul sighed as the record turned itself off. Instead of letting go, though, he held onto John a little tighter, refusing to let go, and his body melted as John began to whisper in his ear: '_God only knows what I'd be with you__…'_. His voice was soft and gentle, his body firm as Paul felt him squeeze back. Too soon, though, John was pulling away, and if Paul's reaction time hadn't been so abysmally terrible thanks to the alcohol running through his bloodstream, he would've pulled him back in.

"Hold on," John said, and Paul watched with curiosity as John knelt down at the record player to put on a different record. He couldn't quite see what he picked out, and waited, unsure what to expect. When a familiar piano tune filled the air, followed by the clear and intimate female voice, it was Paul's turn to laugh.

"The Carpenters? Really? And _you're_ the one calling _me_ sappy," he laughed as John returned to him, wrapping his arms back around him as he pulled him close, chin resting on Paul's shoulder, wilfully ignoring his boyfriend's comment in favour of pressing a sweet kiss to the sensitive skin behind his ear, making him melt back against him. His laughter died down and he hummed contently as John began to move again to the rhythm of the music. 

_Day after day, I must face a world of strangers_  
_Where I don't belong, I'm not that strong_  
_ It's nice to know that there's someone I can turn to_  
_ Who will always care, you're always there_

"I'm just indulging you, darling," John muttered, kissing him again as they gently swayed, hands barely able to keep still now he had his boyfriend like this, and Paul chuckled, fingers tangling into John's shirt at the comforting feeling. He knew what John was saying was bullshit. He knew how romantic and sappy his partner really was, even if he didn't dare to admit it to anyone, even to him. And besides, he didn't mind. He liked it when John did something like this and showed him the softer side that he would usually hide. If John needed to hide behind a thin veneer of "oh, I'm just doing this for you, because I love you and I'd do anything for you", then who was Paul to say anything of it? They misstepped, knocking against the coffee table, and giggled into each other's shoulders as they moved a little more to the side.

"Sorry," Paul muttered, though he wasn't sure what he was apologising for, seeing as John was the one supposedly doing the 'leading'. The man in question just placed another kiss to the crook of his neck.

"It's okay," he whispered, making Paul shiver as his breath ghosted over his skin. "Whoever thought of creating coffee tables was an idiot."

"Useless things, coffee tables," Paul agreed, letting out a tiny gasp as John sunk his teeth into his skin, his own nails scratching over John's back in response, as he turned his head to bury his nose into his hair, taking in the lovely smell of his shampoo. Fresh, spicy, a hint of sweetness, like the man himself.

"Terrible."

_When there's no gettin' over that rainbow_  
_When my smallest of dreams won't come true_  
_ I can take all the madness the world has to give_  
_ But I won't last a day without you_

"Touch me and I end up singing. Trouble seems to up and disappear. You touch me with the love you're bringing. I can't really lose when you're near. When you're near, my love."

Paul smiled at the sound of John gently singing along, not in the over the top way that he would usually do, but sweetly, merely whispering the words into Paul's ear, and Paul couldn't help but calling him a 'sap' in his head.

"I love you," he whispered instead and felt John's fingers tighten their grip on him in response, answering without saying a word, his voice still muttering the lyrics into Paul's ear.

They didn't say any more as they moved to the music, not feeling like there was much more to say than what wasn't already being said in the mere act of holding each other close, of dancing together, of whispering lyrics of romantic songs to each other. Once the song ended, John didn't pull away again, but just continue singing, repeating the song over and over again as if the spell would break if he didn't, even when the next song began, more upbeat and not suiting the slow dance they had started. Paul couldn't help but feel grateful, his body warm and weak against John's, not wanting them to stop yet. But even when John finally did fall quiet and a new song fell over them, they continued moving in their own rhythm.

"I mean it, you know… I wouldn't last a day without you," John finally spoke. His voice was soft, much more than it had been before, and for a moment Paul wondered if he had imagined it. Pulling away, Paul searched for John's eyes, and smiled once he found them, wide and nervous, as they always were when he'd admit something, he felt was new and momentous, fearing Paul would laugh at him for being 'soft'. Fearing Paul would hurt him. But the truth was, whatever John would tell him, Paul had already known. Even if John didn't say it in words, Paul understood what went unsaid, understood what each touch meant, John's fears and worries. He understood what it meant for John to actually voice those thoughts. Those worries, but also his confessions of just how much Paul meant to him. How much John loved him.

Paul didn't kiss him, but instead pulled him in and hugged him, tightly, his arms wrapping themselves all the way around the other man and holding onto him firmly, knowing John needed that so much more. He felt him tense up for a moment, before relaxing again, his own hands clutching at Paul and holding onto him, face buried in Paul's shirt, sighing as Paul began to stroke his hair.

_I love you in a place where there's no space or time_  
_I love you for in my life you are a friend of mine_  
_And when my life is over_  
_ Remember when we were together_  
_ We were alone and I was singing this song for you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not as confident about this one as the previous two, so I hope you liked it anyway. But don't be surprised if I decide to do a second slow dancing chapter at some point. Though, no promises either ;) 
> 
> Songs used:  
Billy Joel - Everybody Has a Dream  
The Beach Boys - God Only Knows  
The Carpenters - I Won't Last a Day Without You  
The Carpenters - A Song For You


	4. Give me your hand to hold as I lie here dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Paul could still remember the first time John had held his hand. He could still remember the soft feeling of his fingertips, two of them at first, gently brushing over the inside of his wrist, hesitant, trembling, uncertain, pausing for a moment before sliding them down to the palm of his hand._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out these little snippets of love and romance are a really good way to experiment with writing styles for a bit.
> 
> I wrote this on the train to uni last week in less than half an hour and was surprisingly happy with it after editing it, so I hope you enjoy!

Paul could still remember the first time John had held his hand. He could still remember the soft feeling of his fingertips, two of them at first, gently brushing over the inside of his wrist, hesitant, trembling, uncertain, pausing for a moment before sliding them down to the palm of his hand. He could still remember how John held still at first, just keeping his fingers there, lightly touching, inching up and down, as if waiting for a reaction, waiting for Paul to give his permission, to let him know it was okay. Apparently Paul must have given him that, for then a third finger joined the others and John slid his entire hand into Paul's, fingers slipping in between his, holding them loosely, but not quite lacing them together, as if even the mere hint of a squeeze would have been too much. Paul had barely dared to breathe.

At times he would think back to that moment, that first time John's hand had slipped into his, his fingers curling between his own, palms slightly damp from the nerves that had been coursing through their bodies. Occasionally, he would even try to mimic that moment with his own hands as he lay in bed, usually while he was high or had a little too much to drink, when he didn't care how daft it was to hold your own hand and pretend it was someone else's. In all honesty, he simply wished he could experience that first initial feeling all over again: the tension he had felt, the light swim of his head at the lack of oxygen in his bloodstream, the tightness of his throat, suddenly dry, rendering him unable to speak or even swallow, his skin hypersensitive at John's feathery touch, his own hand trembling in return, waiting with an unfamiliar eagerness for John to pull through and take what he wanted, to not pull away as he was wont to do.

There had been previous attempts. Paul could still remember the time at the movies, when they had been sitting in the dark, private amongst others, watching some movie Paul couldn't remember, and he had felt John's ring finger on the back of his hand halfway through the screening, drawing a careful circle there with his nail, slowly and with that same hesitance, as if fearing Paul would evaporate if he moved too quickly. It hadn't been the first time they had touched; the first they had met Paul had ended up kissing John if only because he hadn't know how else to let the other man know he liked him. During their first date John had circled a finger around his pinky as they had sat eating fish and chips at the harbour. They had kissed and touched each other many more times after that, but never once had they held hands. It almost felt too intimate, much in the same paradoxical way that it was easier to kiss someone than to tell them you liked them and wanted to see them again.

Paul had held his breath and sat frozen in his seat as John had stroked the back of his hand, fixing his eyes on the wide screen ahead of him, playing a movie Paul was unable to see, all of his sense having cut off in order to focus on the feeling of John's finger against his skin. Eventually, more fingers had joined the first as John slipped his finger further down, feeling Paul's, dipping between them and tracing them. Paul had thought John was going to entwine them, when a man behind them had coughed, alerting them both, at which John had hastily retreated his hand. Neither of them had mentioned the moment afterwards.

That was not to say Paul hadn't attempted something similar himself. In fact, he had done so multiple times: when they were walking through the city, sharing an umbrella, their shoulders brushing, John's hand so close to his own, right there for Paul to grab and hold; or when they were lying in bed, half asleep and curled up together, a cool night's breeze caressing their bodies through the open window, John's hand twisted in Paul's sleeping shirt, while Paul's hand lay uselessly at his side; or on the bus, when John's hand lay resting on his thigh, squeezing; or when they were drinking coffee at a cafe while John read a newspaper and Paul sat watching him over his overpriced latte, glancing down at where John's hand lay resting near his own, fingers all but brushing, begging Paul to touch and tangle them together.

Often, they had either been interrupted before Paul had gathered enough courage to act, or John had already removed his hand. It was embarrassing to think they struggled with something so simple that most people did daily and without thinking - something they both wanted, but neither quite knew how to do. Which was why, when John did finally hold his hand, Paul had quite literally forgot how to breathe, unable to focus on anything but the feeling of John's hand pressed in his own, making his skin tingle pleasantly, tremors travelling from his fingertips to his toes. He had tripped over his own two feet, his body lagging behind his thoughts, at which John had caught him, the hold on his hand tightening in a reflex as he pulled Paul closer to him to keep him on his feet. Paul had clutched at him in return, whispering a curse though he was unsure if it had been directed at his clumsiness or the way John's touch shot electricity through his bones.

"Are you okay?" John had asked. He was chuckling and to Paul it was the most beautiful sound in the world, making up for the embarrassment that burned on his cheeks. He squeezed John's hand back as he pulled himself together. 

"Yes! Yes, perfectly. Must have… tripped over something," he said, straightening up and running his free hand through his hair to fix himself. John had smirked at him then, lips stretched wide and his eyes shining with a mixture of amusement and affection that had Paul leaning against him for the rest of the walk home, the feeling of John's hand in his own burning pleasantly against his skin.

Now they were laying on the bed, silence surrounding them completely, clothing scattered across the floor. John's body lay slotted against his own as if their bodies were a two-part jigsaw, and Paul basked in the feeling of his warmth against his body, nose buried in John's hair, smelling his shampoo, a warm woody combination of cedar wood and cardamom, while John's breath ghosted pleasantly over his neck, creating goosebumps all over his skin from his ears to the tips of his toes, their feet rubbing together to keep warm. The duvet lay on the other side of the bed, but neither felt particularly eager to reach for it if it meant letting go of the other, much preferring to stand the cold a little longer if it meant they didn't have to break apart.

Paul was exploring John's hand with his fingers. His fingers followed each and every curve, feeling every inch of skin and mapping it out, searching for every little hair and every little mark, tracing every dark blue vein he could see. He couldn't help but think how beautiful John's hands were; firm and strong, sturdy with clearly defined muscles thanks to the guitar playing and drawing, nails neatly trimmed - the hand of an artist. His veins formed a love heart at the back of his hand, and Paul couldn't help but picture stardust coursing through it, sparkling silver and gold under his skin like magic, mixing with the blue.

His touches were slow, barely there and feathery light, yet inquisitive and far from uncertain, each movement deliberate and thoroughly considered. There was no fear any longer, no need to hold back or feel shy about it. There was only curiosity and reverence, careful only in that he took his time, not wanting to miss a single detail. He could spent hours exploring John's hand, taking his time to take in every little detail, applying pressure occasionally to feel how it responded to his touch, to try to feel at what lay behind the skin, the feeling of his muscles and tendons, wanting to feel how it was all connected from within and how his bones fitted in between it all.

Finally, though, John responded and pushed back against Paul's touch, before entwining their fingers, lacing them together and folding their hands, fingers moving to do the same to him now, and Paul melted into the feeling, letting John take over as he let his eyes fall close, whispering John's name, his thumb rubbing encouraging circles on his skin in return.

When they fell asleep, John was still holding Paul's hand, pressing it close against his chest as he rolled onto his side, pulling Paul with him to spoon up behind him, encircling John's body with his own to form a protective cocoon. He buried his face in the back of John's neck, kissing the skin there, and sliding his nose into his hair, wanting to drown himself in it as he shuffled in closer. It wasn't long before John drifted off to sleep, clutching Paul's hand, softly muttering inaudible nothings into his pillow that even Paul could not understand. The younger man smiled, listening closely to his gentle breathing and feeling himself being drawn into sleep as well.

He might miss the first hesitant touches they had shared almost a year ago, but if he got this in exchange, he was quite happy to have them as memories alone, ready to revisit when he so wished, while he had the real thing, the unrestrained thing, right here with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you looking for some soft, romantic, head-over-heels-in-love-with-paul-to-the-point-it's-almost-sickening John action, I'll make sure to write some soon, as I just realised I tend to go for Paul's perspective for those kinds of fics more often. Don't know why, but having realised this I really want to do one like this for John too. We all know John was the sappy one. 
> 
> The next one will still be from Paul's perspective and will feature a bit more sensuality.... exciting!


	5. Don't make me say I love you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul have a picnic on the roof while looking up at the stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy with how this turned out! I even thought of posting this separately, but finally decided not to, because it just fits so well with what this series is about and it was set in that universe so... hopefully you'll enjoy it as much as I did (or more... more is good too).

The sky above them was black, as dark as John had ever seen it, with small sparkling lights scattered across it, shining like tiny pieces of broken glass around the waning crescent moon. They created intricate little patterns that invited one to stare up and trace them, allowing them to discover all sorts of different figures and shapes in them. The light of the room itself was reflected in the window, partially obscuring his view. 

Behind him, Paul was drying himself off from the hot bath they had taken. John could see him in the window pane. He stood bent over, running one of John's old towels along his body, lean and pale, making sure to get every crevice, before wrapping it around his waist and turning around to look for a bathrobe. John was already wearing his, his own towel laying discarded on the tile floor to be done away with later. He stood sipping a glass of water and followed Paul's reflection in the window, letting his eyes sweep over the man's naked form as he once more undid the towel to pull on a fluffy white bathrobe instead, tying it securely around his waist. 

The man was a gift, stunning as he was. John had thought so from the moment he had first set his eyes on Paul, and he still thought so now. Paul was a gift; made by ancient gods more terrifying than human imagination would allow. Carved from the finest marble dug from the earth in Italy when the Roman Empire still ruled most of what was now called Europe and the north of Africa. His skin as magical as the stars sparkling in the deep black sea that even intelligent men had no other word for but “space”. Paul occupied space too, and did so more radiantly than any star ever could. 

Taking a bath together had been a wonderful idea; decadent even as Paul had poured them a glass of sparkling rosé and filled a bowl with salt and vinegar crisps for them to enjoy as they sat in the hot, rose-scented bathwater, bodies slotted together, music playing from John's phone in the background. They had opted for classical music this time; Bach to be precise. Although mainly to please Paul, John had to admit it had added to the atmosphere. Even now Bach's Lute Suite in E Minor was playing as John directed his gaze back to the stars above them, not even noticing it when Paul came over until he wrapped his arms around his middle, pressing himself against John's back. He buried his nose in John's wet hair and inhaled. 

"I love the smell of your shampoo," he said, placing a tiny kiss right behind John's ear, making the other man smile. "It’s nice. Warm, woody, spicy… I like it." 

"It's not the only thing about me that's nice," John replied in a lazy drawl. Paul hummed in agreement, nosing at the crook of his neck. 

"Your skin smells nice too." 

"I'll try not to think of that as something a serial killer might say."

Paul laughed, his breath tickling John's neck, and he leaned in further to kiss him there, sliding his tongue across John’s sensitive skin, still tender from the hot water. He nipped at it. 

"If I were a serial killer, I would definitely kill you, darling. You’d be my last — my most coveted thing." 

"I'm honoured," John retorted sarcastically and Paul laughed again, the curve of his mouth breaking his kiss. With one last quick peck to John's jaw he pulled back, resting his chin on John's shoulder as he met his lover’s eyes through their reflection in the window. Paul's wet hair lay in locks over his face. They almost covered his eyes, which shone a deep dark brown behind the thick strands. John was almost certain he could see stars in them as well. 

"I didn't know it had gotten this late already. What time is it?" Paul asked, only now noticing the darkness outside. John shrugged, moving his gaze from Paul back to the waning moon. It looked smaller than it usually did. 

Paul held him a little tighter. "I'm hungry." 

"We haven't yet had dinner," John agreed. His stomach did feel empty, even if he'd rather stay here with Paul all evening. His hesitance vanished however, as an idea struck him. Turning away from the window, he moved to face his boyfriend, placing his hands on his fuzzy shoulders as he looked up at him with an excited smile. "How about a picnic?" 

"A picnic?" 

"We still have some pizza leftover from yesterday. We could have that with some bread and some more of that rosé you bought us and go up to the roof and sit there, have our dinner beneath the stars. Grab a few blankets to sit under. I doubt it'll be that cold, so we wouldn't even have to change into anything." 

"How romantic," Paul murmured in response, leaning back in to nose to John's neck. John rolled his eyes. 

"Don't tease."

"I'm not." 

He pushed Paul away and looked him in the eyes for a moment without saying a word, searching for something teasing in Paul's eyes but he couldn't find it as the man looked back with a calm, almost serene expression. Then Paul smiled and kissed him, bringing their lips together as John clung to him a little tighter, smelling the roses of the bath foam that still surrounded Paul. He truly was a gift; birthed from the rarest flower and picked too early. 

***

Gathering everything they needed for a late-night picnic up on the roof was more of a hassle than John had first imagined. Paul poured some more rosé into their glasses and brought those up with two blankets tucked under his arm, keys to the roof-top door caught between his teeth. John meanwhile gathered as many pillows as he could and followed Paul to bring them up as well, before walking a second time to take up more blankets to keep them warm, and finally their pizza. 

When he returned for the last time, pushing the door open with his hips, Paul had already created a comfortable little corner for them: he had laid out two of the thicker blankets on the ground, near two walls so they would be protected from the wind, and had placed pillows all around for them to sit on and lean against, creating a fine little nest for them in a way that reminded John of the way birds would. Paul sat on one side of the blanket, his bare legs curled under him, glass in hand. A bright cheeky smile appeared on his lips as he caught sight of John.

"Hungry?" John asked, smiling back at Paul as he moved to sit down next to him, his body turned towards the other man. He held up two pizza boxes. 

"Starving," Paul replied, eyeing the food hungrily as John placed the boxes on the floor in front of them. 

Sitting outside, it was less dark then it had first seemed in the bathroom. The moon, despite its size, shone brightly, and the lights of the city provided enough for them to see, bathing the world in a soft glow that was almost silvery in combination with the stars and the moon above. Yet it was almost completely silent. All they could hear was some light swooshing of cars below and the far away chatter of voices that were soft enough to ignore and forget about. It was a peaceful evening and indeed not too cold, with only a light breeze flowing over their bare chests and legs that stuck out from underneath their bathrobes. 

Sitting up, John opened one of the pizza boxes and handed Paul a slice. He had forgotten paper towels to wipe their hands with, but John really didn't feel like moving anymore, so he chose not to say anything. Paul either didn't seem to notice or likewise did not care and simply took the pizza slice with a softly murmured thanks. John fought the urge to blush as he watched Paul take a bite, suddenly struck by the intimacy of the scene, and took a slice for himself as well. 

They sat looking at the stars as they ate, both leaning with their backs against the wall, their bare legs spread out in front of them, tangled together, glasses of rosé in hand. Claude Debussy's Rêverie was playing softly in the background, adding to the slight surreal if not dreamy atmosphere that had been hanging around them since their bath together. The stars sparkled brighter now than they had as John had stood looking at them from the bathroom window. They were even more plentiful now. 

Staring up at the sky, John remained ever aware of the man sitting beside him, looking up at the same stars. But sometimes John could feel his eyes dart down to look at him instead, causing his heart to beat faster and lean into the little touch they shared, most of their bodies being separated by the food that lay between them. His skin felt soft and warm against John's, and if he had not still been eating, he would have pulled Paul against him fully, wanting to feel him completely and have him close.

Occasionally, Paul would spot a constellation he would try to point it out to John, who, failing to see it, would simply stare at Paul instead and watch him as he'd try to point at the different stars with his finger. He looked positively adorable when he did that, leaning up on one hand to get closer, his eyes sparkling more than any star John had seen above them, brow slightly furrowed in concentration as he tried to guide John's gaze. Sometimes it worked, and John would actually see the pattern take shape, at which Paul would smile so brightly with such accomplishment, John could kiss him. Mostly John pretended to spot it just to see that same expression light up his lover's face.

When they finished their late dinner, John put away the empty boxes, placing them to the side and pushing them far away. He had been about to shuffle closer to Paul and lay down against him when he found Paul had beaten him to it, sliding down into a lying position as he crawled over to John, laying his head on his chest and wrapping himself around him. His elegant fingers tangled into John's bathrobe, and a thigh was slung across both of John's legs. Paul's eyes were still turned up to the night sky stretching above them like a blanket. 

Taken aback by the sudden change in position, it took John a moment to relax, but when he did, he wrapped an arm around Paul's body to hold onto him. He tangled one hand in Paul’s hair — extra soft and slightly curly from the bath — stroking through it as he let himself melt against the other man. 

Sitting there in silence with Paul in his arms, infinity stretched out above them, he could not help but think. His mind wandered through various thoughts, one guiding him to the next, though always with him and Paul at the centre of it. With Paul it always felt as if they were the centre of their own little universe, where everything else were just things, moving around them, like immaterial distractions. Just as people used to see the earth before Copernicus and Galileo suggested that perhaps we were not the centre of the universe, but one planet amongst others, helplessly circling a ball of fire that would one day implode and end us all. 

Sitting there with Paul, John wondered if they had been right at all, because no thought seemed quite as awful as that — to be just a glimpse of life while this moment, however small, felt so momentous. 

"Do you remember when we took LSD together?" 

Paul's voice sounded far away, almost as if it had come from the skies above. John felt his body float up towards it, his arms tightening around the other man to keep him near. It took a moment for him to register his question. 

"You didn't want to at first." 

"I didn't know what it would do. Or if I would like it." 

"Do you regret it?" 

"No." 

"Did you like it?"

"I'm not sure." 

"You had to keep going outside. Where you'd just stand, staring up at the stars."

"I could see everything. Or I thought I could. It was too much most of the time. Too much to comprehend. Too oppressive. Too… I don't know." 

"I get it."

He did get it. They hadn't used it again after that first time for that reason. The colours, the sounds, the visions, the fast horrors they'd seen, both majestic and terrifying; it had been a lot, ever-changing and neither good nor bad, but wondrously ambiguous. He was glad he had had Paul with him, once the man did finally decide to take it. 

One thing he remembered most clearly about the experience was when he and Paul had been sitting facing each other on the bed, legs folded in front of them, neither saying a word, but simply staring into each other's eyes for what must have been hours. Kaleidoscope eyes; deep, changing, filled with colours and shapes and patterns, sucking John in and holding him prisoner in his love and amazement. He had almost been able to see himself there; warm and safe, part of the man he loved most. He didn't know what Paul had seen in his, but something was holding him back in asking. 

Sometimes, as he sat staring at Paul, or looking up at the stars as he was doing now, he could still feel a faint remnant of that experience, a strange feeling while his mind was trying to recall the images he had seen. It always failed, his mind being unable to comprehend its own observations. 

Paul continued to speak. 

"I never told you, but I saw you as a king then," he admitted with an embarrassed chuckle, his fingers squeezing John's arm. John grinned.

"Is that so?"

"Don’t let it get to your head, Lennon. There’s a reason I never told you that."

"Am I your king, Paulie, dearest?" John whispered into his ear, teasing, but seeing the way Paul's lips curled up in a reluctant smile, he knew the answer to that question to be a yes. "Tell me about it." 

"You were majestic, all-encompassing like the heavens, larger than life, towering over me, adorned in colours and sparkles, your eyes shining like diamonds, holding fire in your hand, a crown on your head, liquid gold pouring from your fingertips into my mouth. Powerful. Someone to follow even if you were to send me to die in battle." 

"Did you feel worthy of me?" John asked, guessing Paul's thoughts. 

The man paused for a moment, lips trembling with the answer, until finally — 

"Yes. I did." 

"I saw you as an angel, you know. Or, I think it was an angel. It wasn't like one of those you'd see in old paintings. No pretty white dress, or long flowing blond hair. But you had wings, and a bright light behind you, like a halo, but it surrounded you entirely. You were naked, colours flowing across your body, millions of eyes covering every inch of you, blinking at me. You were hovering. It was quite terrifying, but beautiful. Ever out of reach."

"Awful."

"What?" 

"The word you're looking for. Terrifying, but beautiful. Awful." 

"There are no words to describe what I saw,” John said and Paul glanced up at him, but didn’t speak. They remained silent for a while. Looking into Paul's eyes, he could almost recall the image fully. The sheer power Paul had radiated, more than angelical, more than that transcendental light religions spoke of; he could still feel it when he looked at his lover now. He wanted to kiss him, but instead he sat pinned under Paul's thoughtful stare. 

He wanted to say something more, but the thought kept escaping him. Finally it was Paul who spoke first. 

"Do you think there's some truth to it? To what we saw?" he asked. John shrugged.

"The brain has to get those images from somewhere, doesn't it? So, I suppose so. To an extent. But I figure, it's probably more like poetry. Meaning can be elusive, displaced, unintended, but there must be some truth to it. Metaphorically. Metonymically." 

"Yeah… I agree." 

"Why?"

Paul shrugged. "Just thinking." 

A car drove by their apartment building, cutting through the silence that hung around them. John had not realised the music had stopped. He didn't move to turn it back on again. Paul's bare legs, hairy and soft, rubbed against his own and John sighed at the feeling.

"You're not religious. Why did you see me as an angel of all things?" 

The answer that popped into John's head was too sappy for him to even consider saying out loud. He forced it from his mind, and said that which lay closest to the truth.

"I guess my brain thought it was the most fitting," he answered and he could see Paul grin again, knowingly. He took one of John's hands in his, lacing their fingers together as he pressed it to his chest, right above his heart. John was not quite sure if he meant to do that or if it had been a coincidence. Either way, he could feel Paul's heart thumping beneath his rib cage, slow and easy, a comforting steady beat John could write poetry about. 

He shivered as a cold breeze brushed over his naked legs. It was getting late. Paul shuffled closer against him, seeking his warmth. John kissed his ear. 

"My angel," he whispered. Paul sighed in response, his eyes falling close as he leaned into the other’s touch. 

“All yours," he replied, softly, as if still afraid to admit it. John held onto him a little tighter.

“Run away with me." 

"What?"

"You heard me. Let's run away together. Like they used to do in old books and movies. Away from our family, our obligations, our lives, and start over, just the two of us, spending what we have saved, always moving, chasing money to get by." 

"You're being ridiculous!" Paul said with a laugh, but John just smiled. 

“Am I?” 

Paul stared at John for a moment, his laughter dying down at John’s response. For a moment he didn’t say anything, until he gave in and decided to go along with his lover’s suggestion, if only to humour him. 

"Where would we go?" he asked. 

"Paris? Spain? Greece? I've heard southern Ireland is a beautiful place to be any time of the year. It could be like coming home in a way. Return to the country our forefathers fled from." 

"What would I tell my father?"

"That you love me. 

"Do I?"

"Don't make jokes about that." 

A cold shiver travelled up John’s body as Paul turned away from him, looking down at his hands as he got lost in thought. His expression, usually so open and full of life and meaning, remained empty., and John's heart thumped harder in his chest, his breath hitching, old fears returning. 

"But would you? Run away with me?" he asked, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer if Paul declined. If Paul's joke hadn't been a joke. 

To his surprise and relief, however, Paul nodded. He turned his head to look at him and John's throat constricted at the honesty reflected in his eyes. 

"Ireland really is quite beautiful. But I'd go anywhere with you. If you'd ask." 

"What would you tell your father, then?"

"Don't make me say it."

"But you do?" 

Paul blinked up at him, opening his mouth to speak before pausing, his eyes travelling over John's features, as if searching for something. His expression was one of shock, and when he pulled away, it was only to kneel next to him, hovering over John as he reached out with one hand to cup his lover’s cheek, his fingers tingling against his skin, travelling over it. 

"Why do you keep questioning that?" 

Taken aback by the bluntness of that reply, John sat still for a moment, not knowing what to say or do. Finally, he swallowed. 

"I don't deserve you," he said, but Paul shook his head. Yet he continued, "I'm always so jealous of you. You know that. Of everything you do. Your talents, your charm, your looks, the way people always seem to like you, how confident and cocky you can be, how you always do whatever you want to do, however annoying that can be at times. I'm jealous of the people around you. You're not my angel, you're my God." 

"I'm just me, John. Just me." 

"I know. But sometimes it can be difficult to forget." 

Paul kissed him. It was a simple kiss, just a touch of lips, and yet it felt to John as if his entire body and soul slowly unravelled below Paul's mouth. His heart expanded, his toes curled, and his fingers reached up to clutch the other man's robe. When Paul pulled back, John leaned up to kiss him himself, pouring all his love and fears into Paul's mouth as he licked between his cold lips. 

"You're getting cold," he remarked as they broke apart for a second time. 

"It's getting late," Paul agreed and when John didn't say anything more, but only continued staring, he added, "let's go to bed." 

"Yeah… let's go to bed."

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any suggestions for scenes you'd like to see, sent me a message on my tumblr (same user name) and I'll consider it! 
> 
> Also, thanks you, CJD for getting me back into writing again and being such a great friend in general.


End file.
